


Up in Flames

by Plasticgalaxy



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Alcohol Abuse, Angst, Bad sexual history, Betrayal, Cheating, Disappointment, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explosions, F/M, Gen, Grumpy Junkrat, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Junkertown (Overwatch), Kidnapping, Loss of Child, Overdose, Reader-Insert, Robots, Suicide Attempt, bad memories, boba tea half sweet, cis female reader, hyde global, junkrat is a cat person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2019-01-22 06:39:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12475668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plasticgalaxy/pseuds/Plasticgalaxy
Summary: You always loved tinkering with scrap and robots, but your life has been one failure after another. You're given an opportunity to start over with a move halfway across the world and an entry-level position at Hyde Global. Things go from bad to worse when your place of employment gets blown up two weeks in.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place around the events in the official comic, Going Legit, and was inspired by the beautifully written Junkrat/reader fics by filthy_rat. Creative liberties are taken so things may not be totally canon. Also I know literally nothing about Australia so sorry in advance.
> 
> Also, this is my first time writing reader POV so please be gentle.

_ Crap, I'm gonna be late.  _ You checked your watch. 8:24am. Only a couple more blocks. You could probably make it if you power walked it. But then you remembered the extra minutes it took to get through security and wait for the elevator to ship you up to the hundredth floor, and your spirits fell as you knew you definitely wouldn't be on time. 

You'd had this job for a whole two weeks today, and it also marked three weeks since you'd moved to Australia. Most of the continent was a desolate wasteland, but Sydney was still bustling with corporate life, and new job opportunities were springing up every day.

“This will be a good opportunity for you,” your aunt assured you as she saw you off at the airport. She was the closest thing you had to family in this miserable existence, which wasn't saying much. Before you were born, your dad had gone off and joined a war from which he never returned, and your mom died when you were a baby. And while you and aunt Jenna were content enough to stay out of each other's way, she was always there when you needed her to pick you up out of the mud.

And then she'd come out of left field with a one-way plane ticket to a destination halfway across the world and a job opportunity with one of the world's leaders in security drone and omnic production when you got there.

“You'll be starting as an executive assistant,” Jenna explained, “but you'll move up fast once they see your potential.” Though she’d never said anything about it, she knew that you spent your adolescent afternoons searching the wilderness behind her ramshackle house for scrap and robot parts to tinker with instead of playing with your friends or doing your homework. Once you hit high school, you had high hopes of one day becoming a robotics engineer, but that dream was crushed with rejections from every college you applied to. So you spent the rest of your teenage years helping aunt Jenna on her farm and developing a drinking problem.

You don't know how Jenna managed to get you this in, or how she even still believed in you, but she did, and you'd be damned if you ended up fucking it up. However, only two weeks in and things were not looking good.

When you had your video interview days before your arrival, you were told that your workday would start at 9am. Nobody told you that your boss started  _ his _ day at 8am, and liked his morning coffee promptly at 8:30. And guess who was responsible for said coffee? Of course, you. Another fact they'd happened to omit until  _ after _ you’d started.

With the first week of work being one faux pas after another (on top of struggling with a stubborn case of jet lag), you were trying really hard to not get fired over coffee, but some higher power really had it out for you. You waited impatiently for the crosswalk light to flicker to green and then sprinted across the road to the elaborate glass tower of Hyde Global looming above you.

“Hey, Noah!” You greeted breathlessly as you sauntered cooly up to the security counter. Noah was the daytime security guy. Early 30s, short dark hair, real easy on the eyes. Going on dates was probably the last thing you needed in your life right now, but if you had to pick anyone to go on a date with, it would most definitely be Noah.

“G’day,” he barely looked up at you from the fishing magazine he was reading, “need a visitor’s pass?”

“Oh, no, I work here.” You chuckled awkwardly. “The new assistant on the hundredth floor, remember?” You leaned an elbow on the security desk.

“Badge, mate?”

“What?”

“You got your access badge, yeah?” He looked up at your with those painfully pretty green eyes of his.

“Right! My badge.” You patted yourself down, and fished an ID badge on a lanyard from your blazer pocket. “Here you go.”

Noah stared blankly at you for a weighted moment. “Just swipe it at the gate, mate.” He gestured over to the row of ID-activated access gates that separated the lobby from the elevator bank.

“Right.” You felt your face heat up in embarrassment. “Well, nice to see you, I’m running late but I’ll catch you later!” Noah returned his full attention to his magazine as you bounded off. It took three swipes of your ID card to get through the gate, and despite making eye contact with every person in the elevator that was closing, no one held the door for you.

You dejectedly pushed a button and waited for the next elevator to arrive. Glancing at your watch, you sighed. 8:32am.  _ I’m so gonna get fired over this. _

A ding brought you back to reality, and elevator doors opened. You stepped in and selected the button for the hundredth floor, thinking about how you’d just be disappointing aunt Jenna yet again if you managed to blow this opportunity. As the elevator doors closed, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the reflective doors.  _ Jesus Christ, how did I leave the apartment looking like this? No wonder Noah didn’t recognize me… _ Your hair was a hot mess. As the elevator shot upwards, causing your ears to pop slightly, you pulled your hair into a quick bun at the nape of your neck, continuing to assure yourself that you had some kind of chance with the cute security boy.

When the elevator doors opened, you rushed into the office, hastily greeted the receptionist, and beelined for the kitchen. You walked extra fast as you passed the open door of Mr. Wilson’s office, hoping he wouldn’t notice that you were late. However, his sharp, hoarse voice calling your name stopped you dead in your tracks, and your steps were heavy with dread as you entered his office.

Mr. Wilson was an elderly man, a tall, skinny fellow with an angular face who was bald on top. He had piercing eyes beneath wiry silver eyebrows, and wore the slightest of knowing smirks on his wrinkled lips nearly always. Honestly, he gave you the creeps. But he was one of the many senior executives of Hyde Global and he signed your paychecks, so you were ready to kiss his ass as much as you needed to. His spindly fingers were interlaced with each other over the top of his spotless glass and metal desk. He stared through you with those needling eyes of his, and you felt your soul weaken a little.

“Look, Mr. Wilson, I’m terribly sorry for being late… again. I really tried to be on time today, honest, but I was just on my way to get your coffee started — three sugars, is it? — and I swear to you I’m going to try my best to be on time from now on and just please don’t fire me I’m trying my hardest…” He let you verbally vomit for entirely too long before raising a hand to silence you.

“I’ll let it slide for today.” You didn’t necessarily believe in God, but today, someone up there smiled upon you with benevolence. “I have an important matter that requires your utmost discretion. As long as this issue is handled with care, I’ll see to it that you get promoted immediately and given a more… significant place within the company.”

“Sir!” You gasped. “Yes, anything. Just tell me what to do.” Was this really happening? This morning, you were sure that the powers above had forsaken you, but mere hours later, everything was coming up roses. If this is how things were going today, maybe you’d have to buy a lottery ticket on the way home. But why stop there? Might as well ask Noah out for drinks while your luck was running strong.

“I’ve already notified Greta at the front desk, I’m not taking any calls today. I also have a meeting at eleven, but other than that, I am not to be disturbed for anything today.”

Was that really it? “Totally got it. You can count on me.”

“My visitors this morning will be… eccentric. But please treat them with nothing but respect. They’re extremely important clients.”

“Understood!”

“Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll take that coffee now.” The corners of Mr. Wilson’s lips curled into a sinister grin that made your skin crawl, but you returned the gesture, thanked him profusely for being a merciful boss, and retreated to the kitchen.

While you filled the coffee machine’s water reservoir, filled the basket with fresh grounds, and waited for the coffee to brew, you wondered about the “eccentric” clients Mr. Wilson was going to have today. Were they foreign? Would they speak English? Maybe they were omnic monks… oh how you dreamed of meeting an omnic monk one day! But today, you had to be ultra-professional. You filled a mug with piping hot coffee and stirred three spoonfuls of sugar in, then waltzed back to Mr. Wilson’s office.

You’d been busied with menial tasks throughout the morning. You distributed files throughout the office, collected outgoing mail, answered the phone when Greta went downstairs for her mid-morning smoke break, and refilled Mr. Wilson’s coffee at least twice. Your mind was far from present though, entertaining fantasies of designing drone schematics, having an assistant of your own to boss around, and smooching Noah under the moonlight in front of the opera house.

In fact, you were so absorbed in your fantasies that you didn’t hear Greta come up behind you with a couple of visitors. It was a distinct smell of burning rubber that brought you back to reality, and your first thought was one of panic as you racked your brain to remember whether or not you turned the coffee machine off.

“Um…” You turned around and Greta greeted you, looking particularly disconcerted. “These men are here to see Mr. Wilson.” Your focus shifted to the two standing just behind the timid receptionist, and eccentric may have been on a list of words you’d use to describe them. The only other words that came to mind at the moment were  _ what the actual fuck. _

The shorter of the two was a scrawny, twitchy man with a peg leg and a mechanical arm, wearing only a single boot and a pair of cutoff shorts. He kept glancing around nervously and was that… smoke… curling in small wisps out of the ends of his wild, singed hair?

The other man was nothing short of a behemoth. He was an immensely rotund beast who stood over seven feet tall, and wore only slightly more clothing — if it could even be considered that — than his smaller companion. His great big belly was covered in a grotesque pig-faced tattoo that stared blankly at you. His face was hidden behind a full-coverage wastelander mask. You couldn’t see his eyes, but you could feel the crushing weight of his gaze as he sized you up for an entirely uncomfortable length of time.

You were pretty sure you’d seen these two somewhere before, but where, you couldn’t say at the moment. Greta had managed to slink off, leaving them solely in your charge.

“I hate waiting,” the skinny one grumbled, peering suspiciously around. 

“I-I’m sorry,” you finally managed to squeak out, “I didn’t catch your names?”

“I’m Junkrat,” he poked himself in the chest with his mechanical thumb, and then jerked it in the direction of his larger counterpart, “and this here’s Roadhog. We’re here to see Mr. Wilson.”

“Yes, it’ll be just a moment. Please, have a seat right over here.” You swallowed thickly and ushered them over to a seating area around the corner from Mr. Wilson’s office. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?” Junkrat made a disgusted face at you. Roadhog emitted a low, wordless grumble.

“None for me, but he’ll have a coffee,” Junkrat clarified. Roadhog prodded him. “Right. No sugar, just a dash of cream.” You nodded in acknowledgement before retreating to the kitchen, the stink of ash and smoke still lingering in your nostrils. You returned with a cup of hot coffee on a saucer, and Roadhog gingerly accepted it from you. He held the handle of the mug precariously between his thumb and finger, the cup looking like it belonged to a dollhouse in his massive hands, but never brought it up to his masked face to drink.

You knocked gently on the door of Mr. Wilson’s office before cracking it open to poke your head in.

“Sir? Those gentlemen are here to see you…”

“The junkers? Please, send them in.” Mr. Wilson dismissed you with a flick of his wrist, and you gathered as much courteousness as you could to call over the guests and usher them into the office. Before shooing you away, Mr. Wilson handed you a stack of envelopes to take down to the mail room. It was as if he knew you would be keen to hover around his office door and try to listen, so he busied you with a task that would take you far from where you could overhear anything.

On your way out of the office, you scooped up the bin with the remainder of the floor’s outgoing mail, and headed for the elevators. As you made your way towards the mail room on the first floor, you wondered about what kind of business a pair of outback wastelanders had in a place like this. You’d seen people like them lingering around the dive bars, for sure, but never in the bustling corporate area of Sydney. Granted, you’d only been here a whopping three weeks, and there was probably a lot you hadn’t seen yet.

“Hey, Stu,” you greeted the elderly mailroom clerk as you parked your bin on the desk. “Did you see those wasteland-looking guys who came in?”

“Yeah,” Stu’s usually warm expression hardened. “I’m pretty sure those are the guys from Junkertown who are responsible for a whole bunch of burglaries and arsons. Dunno what they’re doing here.” You reeled with the sudden rush of realization. You knew exactly who the two upstairs were now, they’d been all over the front page of every newspaper in the airport when you’d arrived. Sensing your cluelessness, Stu spent the next several minutes giving you a quick rundown of the junkers’ known history. Sometimes they worked as mercenaries, but most of the time they stole and destroyed whatever they wanted just for the hell of it. They lived out in Junkertown in the outback, and would regroup there after their heists. However, none of the local nor international authorities would pursue them there. Junkertown was a lawless place, it was said, in the middle of an irradiated wasteland.

By the time you got back up to the office, the junkers were gone, with only the lingering odor to remind you they’d been there. Greta complained about it as she sprayed air freshener, but you’d retreated happily back to your fantasies of promotion and romance at that point.

The rest of the day seemed to fly by, and on your way out you asked Noah to meet you at your favorite bar later for drinks, then waltzed away before he could say no. After all, with the way your luck was going today, he was sure to show up. Once at the bar, a divey little place downtown, you bragged to anyone who would listen about your upcoming promotion and bought a round of drinks for the bar.

By the time the bartender made last call at 11:30, Noah still hadn’t shown up. You’d had a few too many, and you were down to the last $20 note in your wallet. Dejected and a little heartbroken, you gathered yourself together and stumbled out of the bar, shuffling in the direction of your apartment building.

Despite how late it was on a weeknight, there were still people out on the street. A small crowd had amassed near one of the factory buildings, and people were whispering and pointing. You stopped for a moment to take in the spectacle. A couple of men had scaled the building and were mucking about on the roof. Your vision was blurred from the excessive alcohol consumption and you couldn’t make anything out.

“Hello, police?” You heard a man talking into his cell phone as you shuffled away, your body begging for sleep. As you reached the front door of your building, you heard a loud explosion and some shouting, and a couple of police cars whizzed past on the street. You were entirely too drunk to care, and besides, you had work in the morning.

No sooner had you laid your head on your pillow than a much larger explosion than before rang out in the night, followed by a tremor that shook you awake. It was followed by the sounds of rapid gunfire, more explosions, and screaming that haunted you in what little actual sleep you got that night.

You awoke the next morning to the sun shining brightly through your window and your alarm going off. Your head was pounding and your mouth was dry. Groggily, you checked the wristwatch that you didn’t even bother taking off last night. 8:15am.

_ SHIT, SHIT, SHIT. _

Of all the days to be late to work, this was not it. You didn’t even bother trying to find a new outfit, yesterday’s would have to do. You hastily brushed your hair, threw it up in a ponytail, and swished some mouthwash. Throwing a couple of cosmetics in your purse to apply at work, you quickly scrubbed the remnants of yesterday’s makeup off with a damp towel, then dashed out the door.

Your head felt like it was being split open with a hatchet, your lungs were burning, and the nausea was steadily rising in the pit of your stomach by the time you got a few blocks away. It was already 8:40, and you were impatiently waiting for the crosswalk light to change when you heard a scream. Someone was pointing at one of the upper floors of the Hyde Global building. A body dangled from a chain thrown out a broken window. It was too far up to make out any details, but you were secretly hoping it hadn’t happened on your floor. Whatever it was, hopefully the commotion would be distraction enough to keep anyone from noticing that you were late to work. Again.

The light changed and you lost your footing as you stepped off the sidewalk. It was as if someone had taken the ground under your feet and gave it a sharp shake. You knew you had the spins this morning but didn’t think they were that bad, were they? The corresponding explosion happened almost instantaneously and was so loud that you barely heard it, but your ears rang for minutes afterwards. You clamored to your feet and looked around; people everywhere were running. From what? Pieces of glass and debris started to rain down from above. Another rumble shook the earth and nearly swept you off your feet again as the Hyde Global building began to collapse in on itself in what looked like slow motion.

You turned on your heels, and ran. To where? You didn’t know. You had no idea what was happening. Was it a terrorist attack? Another omnic uprising? Something hit you in the head and knocked you over. Your vision went black.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed before you opened your eyes again, but everything was eerily quiet.  _ Am I dead? _ Your head was still pounding, worse than ever now, and you couldn’t focus your eyes. A tall, heavyset figure stepped into your field of view. His face was obscured by a mask, and he was reaching a large, meaty hand out towards you. You tried to cry out for help, but no sound came. You couldn’t move, and your whole body was racked with pain when you tried. The tattooed belly was the last thing you saw before you slipped back into unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote half of this chapter in my phone. Anyway I know I tagged this fic as reader/junkrat but it's probably going to be a while before any of the actual romance stuff. Hang tight!
> 
> Also reiterating that I know nothing about Australia so all of this is just out of my ass.

You weren’t sure how long you were out. It may have been hours, it may have been days. You had vague memories of drifting in and out of consciousness. They came back to you in half-remembered snapshots. A motorcycle. The open freeway disappearing into the desert ahead. The fluorescent overhead lights in a small room silhouetting a doctor asking you questions you couldn’t hear. You weren’t entirely sure that you didn’t just dream all of it.

Finally, you came to after a long, dreamless sleep. It was dark, but a faint glow from somewhere outside allowed enough light for you to take in your surroundings. You’d been laid out on a lumpy bedroll in a small tent, and covered with a thin blanket. In a moment of panic, you patted yourself down, relieved to find that you were still wearing your blouse and pencil skirt and none of your intimate areas seemed to have been violated. Your flats, blazer, and purse had been unceremoniously dumped into a pile on the ground next to you.

An ache crept into your bones and worked its way up your neck. You felt stiff and sore all over, and you noticed that your hands were bandaged up. Despite your battered and bruised state, you were no longer severely hung over, but you could definitely use a drink. You heard the crackling of a campfire, and a hauntingly familiar voice barking angrily. Where had you heard that voice before? You strained to hear what he was saying.

“Look, I’m sure you’ve got your reasons, but I thought we were in agreement. The suits, they’re all the same. Ain’t no two ways about it. And that sheila in there is one of them, Roadie.”

_ Roadie. _ The way the shrill voice addressed the other struck a chord of remembrance within your addled brain. A grunted response from the other filled in the rest of the puzzle. Junkrat and Roadhog. The creepy wastelanders from the other day. Your blood ran ice cold as you wondered what exactly what you were doing in their company. Weren’t they ruthless criminals who blew shit up for fun and didn’t hesitate to kill anyone who got in their way? Why were you still alive? Did they take you as a hostage? Why you? You were nobody important…

Your train of thought was broken by the sound of uneven footsteps and Junkrat’s voice growing closer.

“Fine, fine. I’ll go check on her. I swear, you’ve gone soft Roadie.”

In a panic, you glanced around for anything that could be used as a weapon. The tent was empty except for your bedding and effects. Then you remembered the pocket knife you carried in your purse. It was a cheap, China-made souvenir flip knife with a koala on the handle, and the blade was nicked from using it to pry the caps off of beer bottles, but it was all you had. You retrieved it from your purse, palming it tightly and rolling over, pretending to still be asleep.

You heard the tent’s zippered door open, followed by a boot-clad footfall and the staccato of Junkrat’s peg leg. The steps shuffled close to you until the campfire smoke and singed hair odors filled your nostrils.

“Hmph, still asleep,” he muttered to himself, and you could feel the weight of his gaze as it passed over you. Your heart was pounding so hard in your throat that you were surprised he couldn’t hear it. There were a few moments of silence, and then, a rustling. He was going through your purse! You stayed still as long as you could, as much as the adrenaline pumping through your veins tried to spring you into action. Hearing your wallet zip open, that was the last straw. You threw off the blanket and scrambled to a kneeling position, pointing the pocket knife threateningly at Junkrat.

“D-drop it, thief! And d-don’t come any closer!” Your stutter betrayed your nervousness but it seemed that the element of surprise was enough. Junkrat let out a shocked yelp and fell backwards, tossing your wallet to the side. Both of you froze in your positions, but Junkrat’s frightened expression quickly turned to anger and annoyance as he crawled onto all fours and reached for you with his metal hand. You attempted to slash at him, but did no harm to his prosthesis.

“Gimme that, ya punk,” he snatched the knife from you, easily bending the blade with his thumb and tossing it behind him. You threw your hands up defensively. “We save your sorry butt, and that’s the thanks you give? Real grateful you are.”

“Well, thank you for saving me,” you replied begrudgingly, “but what do you want with me? If you meant to take a hostage, I’m not worth anything. You’re better off just killing me.”

“If it was up to me, you’d already be dead,” Junkrat sneered, brandishing a fist at you. “Some reason Roadie’s got a soft spot for you, but he won’t say. Until I find out why that is, we gotta keep you alive.”

You glanced over at where he’d thrown your knife. Sure, he was an intimidating guy, but you got into enough fights as a teenager that you could probably overtake him easily. Junkrat followed your gaze.

“Don’t even think about it.” He clenched his teeth and loomed over you, pointing threateningly into your face with a metal finger. “I spent the last couple days getting screwed over by  _ your _ boss and getting shot at by the coppers, and I’m in a foul bloody mood. Didn’t even get my full pay for the job. Roadie might like you, but I sure as shit don’t.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” you replied quietly, balling your fists in your lap.

A brief moment of surprise and… was that hurt?… flashed across his expression, but it was so quick you could’ve missed it if you blinked. He doubled down on his scowl and said nothing as he backed out of the tent, snatching your mangled pocket knife on the way.

“Oi, Mako! Your  _ princess _ has awoken!” You heard Junkrat shout in a mocking tone. A tall, lumbering figure blocked the campfire light and Roadhog popped his masked head into the tent. With your body still buzzing from the adrenaline surge, it took everything within you to not scream out and start throwing punches.

“Hungry,” Roadhog rumbled at you, and you couldn’t tell if he was asking you or telling you. You hoped it wasn’t the latter.  “Hungry,” he repeated, pushing further into the tent that was entirely too tiny to comfortably accommodate the both of you. His hand came towards you and you flinched, until you realized he was offering skewers of charred meat.

You  _ were _ hungry, famished even. However, you were not about to accept even a bite of mystery meat from someone who was commonly described as sadistic and ruthless. Roadhog thrust the skewered meat further towards you, but you shook your head. He withdrew, leaving you alone in the tent again. You began to gather up your things — your discarded wallet was returned to your purse — and slipped your flats on. No sooner were you about to make a break for it than Junkrat popped his head back in.

“Don’t even think about flyin’ the coop, little bird,” he chuckled at his own way with words. “We ain’t but in the middle a nowhere and if the dingos don’t get ya, the wastelanders surely will.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively at you before letting out a maniacal cackle and zipping the tent shut. You were too terrified to try to escape, and so your only option was to try to tough out the night with them, whatever that would entail. But according to Junkrat, Roadhog wanted you alive, so at least you had that going for you.

Despite the hunger gnawing at your gut, you managed to drift off into a light sleep. You were awoken early the next morning by the sound of shuffling around the campsite and Junkrat muttering gibberish to himself. You peeked out of the tent to see the two of them breaking down another, larger tent and packing bags onto the back of an enormous, custom-painted chopper with a sidecar.

“Oh look, sleeping beauty’s finally awake,” Junkrat commented as he noticed you peeking out. “Now get up before we pack you up with the tent.” You exited the tent, clutching your purse close while you put your blazer back on, and stood out of the way. Last night’s campfire was only a pile of ash and charred bits of log at this point, but something green caught your eye. You nudged at it with the toe of your shoe to unearth it from the dust. It was your pocket knife. The plastic handle had melted and the metal bent beyond any repair.

Before long, the three of you were on the road. You were stuffed into the sidecar with Junkrat, who’d donned a harness with a spiked tire attached to it and kept prodding you with his bony elbows. You felt your stomach growl loudly, but it was drowned out by the roar of the motorcycle engine. Four hours of dusty desert scenery dotted with scrubby brush and plateaued mountains on the horizon later, you had stopped in some small nowhere town.

The three of you stepped into a run-down diner where you could feel the crushing weight of the hostile stares from the few people there. It seemed like your captors were infamous even out in the sticks, and it was clear they were unwelcome.

“If y’all wanna eat, y’all pay up front,” a bleach blonde middle-aged waitress approached, “otherwise you get the hell out, we don’t want your trouble.”

“Well that’s a fine how do you do,” Junkrat exclaimed, “being treated like a criminal before we even done anything! What kind of service is that?”

“Listen Jamison,” the waitress growled through clenched teeth as she snatched Junkrat by the harness. Roadhog took a step forward and she relinquished her grip, but stood her ground. “This ain’t the first time you two have been through this way, and we’re not gonna tolerate your shenanigans.”

Not wanting things to escalate further, you dug into your purse and pulled out your wallet, fishing out that last $20 note that you hadn’t spent on drinks. You pressed it into the waitress’ hand.

“I know it’s not much,” you admitted, “but at least accept a down payment. Please, we’re hungry.” The waitress eyed you warily before pocketing the money.

“Yeah, we’re huuungry,” Junkrat moaned. The waitress whirled around and poked him in the chest.

“Don’t push your luck, Jamison.”

She seated the three of you at a booth and took your orders and demanded the remaining $10 the lunch was going to cost before even putting your orders in. Roadhog reluctantly paid the balance with crumpled dollar bills. After the waitress left, you excused yourself to the restroom.

After using the toilet, you let the water run in the sink for a minute. Your hair was a mess, and you attempted to finger comb what tangles you could before giving up and tying it up in a bun. Your face was scratched, dirty and bruised. Wetting a wad of paper towels, you scrubbed what you could off your face, neck, and chest, and just stared for a moment at your reflection with contempt.

What a fine waste of space you had grown up to be.

You heard the bathroom door open and you quickly shut the faucet. It was the waitress from earlier. She approached you with motherly concern plastered across her face.

“Are you okay hun? Those assholes didn’t hurt you, did they?” She eyed your wrapped hands and dirty blouse.

“I’m fine!” You laughed nervously. “Actually, they saved me.”

She let out a snort. “Yeah, okay, and dingos can fly.”

“No, really,” you insisted, “the building I work in blew up and I think I got hit with debris but they got me patched up.” The waitress squinted at you suspiciously. You suddenly wondered why you were defending them. Sure, you probably would've died in the fallout from that explosion, but it was no less than your miserable existence deserved. It also would've saved you the eventual embarrassment of coming back to aunt Jenna with your tail between your legs, having fucked up yet another opportunity that she set up for you. But for some strange reason, you believed that at least Roadhog had some sincere reason for keeping you alive, even if his scrappy counterpart loudly loathed you.

“Just watch out for yourself. They're dangerous men and they've killed more innocent folk than you for looking at them the wrong way,” the waitress advised. You thanked her for her concern and slipped out of the bathroom, returning to the booth where the junkers had already started digging into their lunches. You found it odd that Roadhog only pulled the mask up from the lower half of his face, just enough to be able to shovel food into his mouth. You tried not to stare, but from what you could see, his double chin was stubbled with silver hair, and covered in a multitude of haphazard scars.

And then you were on the road again, nothing but the endless expanse of outback ahead and behind. Slowly, the desert gave way to another landscape. The squat trees that dotted the landscape were dead, and the underbrush seemed warped in a way. Hunks of metal and mechanical scrap jutted half-buried out of drifts and dunes. What they'd originally been a part of, you couldn't tell.

The highway in this area became less maintained, and the ride, a little bumpier. As if being stuck in a sidecar with the bony Junkrat wasn't enough, the extra jostling had him elbowing and kneeing you all over the place. At one point, you'd elbowed him in the ribs (but you swore it was an accident) and he had the nerve to whine about it for the next ten miles.

As the sun began to sink low in the sky, illuminating the clouds in hues of reds and purples, a looming structure slowly rose on the horizon. It appeared to be a city of sorts, and when it got closer you saw the structures were constructed out of massive pieces of scrap metal welded together.  _ This must be the fabled Junkertown, _ you thought in wonderment.

“Ahh, there she is,” Junkrat sighed blissfully, a wide smile plastered on his face. “Home sweet home.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh yeah so this chapter sucks, I'm having a lot of writing constipation and this is kind of an interlude before stuff gets serious and the relationships start to change.

“WHAT?” Junkrat shrieked incredulously. You didn't think it was possible for him to get any louder, but he was all about breaking expectations. “She can't stay in there, that's MY room! Mine!” He was stomping around like a petulant child.

Junkertown was quite the place, and you hadn’t even seen most of it yet. It was a massive wasteland city built entirely out of scrap and repurposed bits of robots and omnics. Despite the ramshackle appearance, the city was fully powered by generators and the establishments within had running water and access to a rudimentary sewer system. The fortified center of the city was home to few elite and the queen herself, and where all the bars and trade posts were housed. Surrounding that was where the majority of the population of Junkertown lived, in rundown wooden shacks, for about a half mile radius around.

Roadhog had a rather large shack on the outskirts of town. The majority of it was one room with workbenches, tanks of fuel, and a massive auto lift occupying most of it. Roadhog’s own “room” was a semi-secluded corner with a sunken in bed. Above that was a loft with a threadbare couch, a television, and a very impressive stereo system. Off in another corner was a fridge, a stovetop, and an inconveniently small counter. The shack had a separate room off to the side, with a big, sinister-looking smiley face and NO TRESPASSING painted across the door. It was Junkrat’s only place to himself in this entire establishment, and Roadhog was currently offering it to you. To stay in. Indefinitely.

“If it makes no difference to you, I can just sleep on the couch,” you offered, hoping to ease Junkrat’s temper tantrum. “And then in the morning, I’ll just catch a ride home and you guys won’t even have to worry about it.”

“Home…” Roadhog was a man of few words and even fewer emotions, but he seemed genuinely confused. “Home is here.”

“For you, yes,” you said, “but I have an apartment in downtown Sydney. Though now that my job doesn’t exist anymore, I’ll probably go back to the States and move back in with aunt Jenna…”

“You can stay here,” Roadhog insisted in a tone of voice that just may have been his normal one, but sounded very much like it wasn’t up for discussion. He motioned again to the mattress on the floor in the cramped, cluttered room, and Junkrat popped off into another round of indignant hysterics.

Again you offered to sleep on the couch, and again Roadhog would accept nothing less than your total occupation of Junkrat’s room. And Junkrat remained no less than completely incensed with the idea. After a few more rounds of back and forth, you gave up. You weren’t getting anywhere, and you were exhausted from the long ride. So when Roadhog offered you Junkrat’s room for the last time, you accepted, and the skinny Australian shrieked in rage. Before he could come after you, Roadhog pushed you into the room and pulled the door closed behind you.

“Just… don’t touch any of my stuff!” you heard Junkrat yell after you. There was an awkward squawk and then the sound of heavy footsteps leading away from the door. Your attention drifted to the piles of scrap, robotic components, half-empty liquor bottles, and gold ingots strewn about the room. You didn’t care much for the riches, but your brain was cataloging everything you could make with just the scraps you could see on the surface. This was a tinkerer’s treasure trove. However, the last thing you wanted to do was make the explosives-obsessed freak regret your existence even more, so you decided to forego poking through the junk piles (for now).

There was a thin sheet thrown across the sooty mattress, and you spread it out as neatly as you could and laid on top of it. It smelled like an ashtray and you lost the last little bit of hope you clung to for not permanently acquiring the smell.

The door to the room creaked open, and Roadhog lumbered in. He was carrying a couch cushion and a threadbare blanket. You sat up and watched him cautiously as he kneeled next to the mattress, placing the cushion for you to use as a pillow and gently laying the blanket over you. Was he… tucking you in? You laid your head back on the makeshift pillow and he pulled the blanket up to your chin, bringing his huge hand up to your face and tucking some hair behind your ear. Yeah, this was definitely awkward. You shuddered as you tried not to think about what kind of intentions he had for you, and pulled away from his touch. Roadhog withdrew his hand, and slowly, wordlessly stood and retreated from the room, switching off the cracked porcelain table lamp on his way out.

That night, your dreams were plagued with reenactments of the explosions in downtown Sydney. They all involved you knowing what was about to happen, but not being able to do anything about it. Some of the nightmares placed you in the building moments before the demolition, and you woke in a cold sweat moments before you plummeted to your in-dream death. You half expected to wake in your loft room of aunt Jenna’s farmhouse, wrapped in a warm, handmade blanket made of sheep’s wool to protect you from those cold midwestern nights. Instead, you found yourself on a lumpy mattress that smelled like campfire and gunpowder, in the middle of Australia’s outback with no one who could rescue you knowing if you were still alive. Heck, as far as anyone was concerned, you’d been on time to work and died with everyone in the Hyde Global building that day. As the morning sun began to peek in through the haphazardly-boarded windows, you stared at the ceiling thinking about how you would never get that raise or that date with Noah.

The smell of cooked bacon found its way to your nostrils, and your stomach growled loudly. You checked your watch. The glass face was cracked and the minute hand was loose. Sighing, you tossed it into your purse and then hauled yourself out of bed and into the main room of the shack to follow the smell of food.

A pair of angry amber eyes topped by a mop of wild blonde hair stared down at you from over the back of the couch.

“Good morning,” you greeted, attempting to be civil.

“There’s breakfast,” Junkrat grunted at you, “Roadie made me promise to leave some for you.” He pointed his mechanical hand towards the kitchen corner.

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” you responded, making your way over. A metal plate was waiting on the counter for you, with a heap of scrambled eggs, a few slices of bacon, and some toast. The bacon didn’t quite look like what you knew bacon to look like, but food was food and you’d rather not speculate what kind of animal it came from if you were going to enjoy it.

You brought your breakfast up to the loft, where Junkrat sat cross-legged on the couch, chewing on a strip of bacon and watching cricket on the television. Despite it being a rather nice-looking widescreen, the picture was awful. You’d remembered seeing antennae on top of a lot of the shacks, and figured that reception wasn’t too great in the middle of the outback. Junkrat watched your every move as you crossed in front of him and sat at the opposite end of the couch.

“You’ve got some cool stuff in you room,” you remarked, shovelling some eggs onto the toast. Junkrat said nothing, but shot you a murderous glare. “Don’t worry, I didn’t touch anything.” His spiky demeanor seemed to ease a bit, but he was still very guarded.

“You ain’t nothin’ but a suit. What do you know about any of that stuff?” he grumbled, returning his attention to the television. You both watched the cricket game on the television in silence for a moment. 

“I know I could build some really cool robots out of your junk,” you offered, and Junkrat glared in your direction again.

“Robots are about as bad as suits,” he muttered, finishing off his breakfast and chewing sloppily. There was no pleasing this man, he was hell bent on hating you no matter what.

“Where’s Roadhog?” you asked after another long silence. Junkrat huffed in annoyance, you were clearly ruining his enjoyment of the cricket game. You never understood cricket anyway, and thought it was even more boring than golf.

“He works security during the mecha battles in the arena. I ain’t allowed in no more, though.” He tried to make it sound like he was indifferent, but his tone of voice betrayed bitterness.

“Why aren’t you allowed in?” you asked, cautiously biting into the bacon. It was definitely not pig bacon. Much gamier, but not terrible. Junkrat gritted his teeth and flat out refused to acknowledge your question. He instead continued to stare with intensity at the tv screen. “So what’s the deal with—” you started, meaning to ask about the cricket game on the tv, but you were abruptly cut off as Junkrat snapped at you.

“Why d’ya gotta ask so many darn questions?”

“I’m  _ sorry, _ ” you spat back, “I figured if we were gonna live under the same roof, it wouldn’t hurt to be civil to each other.”

“What’s the point? You’ll be gone soon anyway, mate.” He waved his hand at you dismissively.

“If I had any choice, which, may I point out  _ I didn’t, _ I wouldn’t even be here in the first place.” You gulped down a lungful of air, trying to keep yourself from crying. It had always been your weak point when you got angry or frustrated. “And honestly, I’d rather be dead than dealing with your crappy attitude.”

Junkrat shot you a look, the same look you saw on his face the other day. Confusion and hurt were written across his face for but a fraction of a second before he scowled disdainfully and returned his attention to the television, saying nothing. You were glad you’d finished your breakfast already because the argument had ruined your appetite. A drink would’ve been great right now, but you didn’t trust the bottles in Junkrat’s room. Tears were stinging at the corners of your eyes and you furiously blinked them away as you walked away and left your empty plate on the counter. Grabbing your purse from Junkrat’s room, you headed out.

There was a river that flanked one side of the outskirts of Junkertown, and a bend in the river where the water pooled and the undercurrent was weak seemed to be a popular area for the poor of Junkertown to wash their laundry and bathe. There were quite a few men and women hanging around, as it was still early in the day and hadn’t gotten hot yet. Whispers rippled amongst them as you approached, and they eyed you cautiously.

You suddenly felt incredibly self-aware, and sat down at the edge of the river to just dip your feet, trying to avoid anyone’s stare. With your purse in your lap, you rummaged through for anything useful. You pulled out your compact and opened it up. The pressed powder had been shattered, but the mirror was still intact. Your face was still bruised and scratched, but looking better than it did the day before. Your hair was an awful mess, having not been properly brushed in a few days. Returning your compact to your purse, you rummaged around some more, and managed to find a collapsible palm brush that you had forgotten you had.

After you finished brushing your hair out, you decided you were done with just dipping your feet. You were covered in dirt, your clothes were filthy, and you were perpetually smelling that stench of soot. You stripped down to your bra and underwear and eased yourself into the river.

It would’ve been better if you’d had soap, but the cool, gently flowing water felt fantastic against your skin. You rubbed at your arms to loosen the dirt and scabs, and dunked you head in and scrubbed your scalp. This would probably be the closest you were going to get to clean as long as you were in Junkertown, but it was better than staying filthy. You wove your hair into a braid to keep it out of your face before grabbing your skirt and your blouse and dunking them into the water, attempting to scrub out as much as you could.

As you headed back towards Roadhog’s house, you thought about how much better you felt, but your brain still craved alcohol. You’d make a point to ask the big man later if he had anything to numb your nagging headache with.

You noticed that Junkrat was staring at you from the couch as you came back in. You were still in your skivvies, having left your work clothes on the porch railing outside to dry. Meeting your gaze, he stuck his tongue out at you and disappeared back into the couch, no doubt to angrily stare at the cricket game.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Junkrat starts to come around and be adorable! As always, please be gentle. :)

It had been nearly a week since you took up residence with the junkers, and while the whole thing still felt off, you were almost glad to be alive and well. Roadhog flat out refused to entertain the idea of you leaving, but otherwise gave you free reign and treated you with care. He would tuck you into bed every night, ready breakfast for you every morning, and even offered to braid your hair for you a couple of times.

One day, you’d wandered into the fortress of Junkertown. They’d stopped you at the gate to ask a few questions, but once they learned of your affiliation with Roadhog, they’d let you right in. You were careful to avoid mentioning Junkrat. It had helped that you were starting to look like one of them now. Your blouse had lost most of its buttons so you kept it tied just below your breasts, and the hem of your skirt had been ripped. You’d wandered around the marketplace and pored over the salvaged wares for sale and trade. Then you’d heard yelling, and saw two men arguing outside of the bar. One of them was Roadhog. The other man spit at him, and as he turned to walk away, Roadhog grabbed him by the arm, and with a quick flick of his wrist, dislocated the man’s shoulder. Probably broke his arm as well, but you’d turned away, horrified, as Roadhog’s great big belly bounced with laughter. This was a man who found no remorse in harming others. A man who was so ruthless that the Queen of Junkertown herself employed him for her whims, because his only loyalty was to money. And to you, apparently. You still had no idea why he treated you so carefully, so gently, when everything about him seemed to contradict that side of him that only you saw.

Junkrat had gone from being loudly and openly contemptful of you to just ignoring you, which you were thankful for. He really didn't seem like a bad person, just a misunderstood guy who was used to keeping people at arm's length. On days that Roadhog spent working, Junkrat was content to putz around the house, tinkering with explosives and humming or talking to himself. Whenever he caught you watching him, though, he would scowl at you and scoop up whatever he was working on and hobble out of sight.

On this particular day, you were curled up on the couch, watching cricket on the television, and trying your damnedest to figure out the point of the game, if only to distract you from a nagging headache that just wouldn't go away. You heard Junkrat’s uneven footsteps pacing back and forth across the shack, followed by the sound of metal springs creaking slowly.

“The hunter lays a trap for his prey,” he narrated quietly, and then giggled mischeviously to himself. You peered over the back of the couch and watched as Junkrat finished setting up a bear trap near the kitchen area. He gingerly set a lump of old cheese in the middle with his mechanical hand, and arranged a few flash bangs around it. You continued to watch with mild fascination as he leapt back a few feet, giggling to himself and readying a remote detonator. Several minutes passed, both of you watching the bear trap with bated breath.

After what seemed like an eternity, a rat came wiggling out from between the stove and the counter. It was a big, fat, grizzled old thing, but miniscule compared to the trap Junkrat had set for it. It sat for a moment, sniffing the air and assessing the situation in the best way a rat could. 

“C’mon, you little bugger,” Junkrat whispered, the grin on his face growing strained as he was forced to stay still. His thumb hovered precariously over the trigger of the detonator. The rat pressed forward at an excruciatingly leisurely pace, and you could almost see Junkrat’s will start cracking with how still he was forced to be.

The rat stepped into the radius of trap, and you thought you might miss it if you blinked. Junkrat’s shoulders were rising and falling with controlled deep breaths. Finally, the rat stepped onto the trigger plate to retrieve the cheese, and put just enough of its own weight to spring the trap.

The steel bear trap sprung into the air as it snapped closed with a terrific clang that made you jump. It startled the rat as well, who’d grabbed the cheese and turned to make a run for it. Before it could get far, Junkrat mashed the detonator button and giggled maniacally as the flash bangs all exploded in succession, stunning the poor vermin.

Junkrat tossed the detonator to the side and grabbed the rat with his mechanical arm, bringing the fat little bugger up to look it in its little, beady-eyed face.

“Finally gotcha, mate,” he wheezed with angry, triumphant laughter. “I’ll make you pay for all me wires you’ve chewed through and all me food you’ve stolen.” The rat squeaked out in protest.

The skinny Australian’s grin fell into a grimace as the rat wriggled free from his grasp and made a break for the cover of the kitchen equipment. His metal hand was frozen into a clawed grip and seemed to refuse to move. Junkrat shrieked out in frustration, shaking his arm repeatedly before tearing off the prosthetic and throwing it at the hole the rat had disappeared into.

“Piece of junk!” He roared, fuming. He cradled his stump in his other arm and rocked slightly on his heels, brow furrowed as he angrily chewed on his lip.

“Hey, can I take a look at it?” You offered from your perch on the couch. Junkrat whirled around to glare at you incredulously, before snatching up his discarded arm and grumbling to himself while he hobbled off to his room. You followed, climbing down from the loft and standing in the doorway of the side room, watching as Junkrat sat on the floor and fumbled with the prosthetic arm.

“I can probably fix it,” you offered, and Junkrat only glared at you from beneath his bushy eyebrows.

“Ya prob’ly can’t,” he retorted, jamming a screwdriver into the wrist area. You winced as he slipped and pried a piece loose and growled in frustration. You turned on your heels to leave the room.

“Okay, well—”

“Wait.”

You looked back over your shoulder, and Junkrat’s expression had softened. He was still guarded, but was holding the prosthesis out to you. You paused, but his gaze became more pleading and you gave in.  _ I just really want to work on some cool robotic stuff, it’s been too long since I’ve been able to tinker, _ you reminded yourself, pushing out of your mind the notion that Junkrat’s sad puppy eyes had gotten to you. You sat yourself on the the floor across from him, and he hesitated before handing the arm over to you.

Turning it over in your hands, you eyed the prosthetic arm. It was a pretty impressive piece of machinery, intricately crafted with some robotics for fine motor movement. It wasn’t anything more complicated than you had put together yourself. You retrieved the screwdriver from Junkrat and began to loosen some pieces towards the top.

“Other than locking up, have you had any issues with it?” You asked.

“Mostly that,” he responded, hovering protectively over you and watching your every move with a degree of uncertainty. “Normally I get it tuned up at a scrapper in town, but…” his voice trailed off for a moment. “...on account of bein’ banned I ‘aven’t been back to see her in a while.” You glanced up at him at the mention of  _ her _ but quickly looked back to what you were working on when you wondered why you cared.

“What did you do to get banned?”

Junkrat seemed momentarily offended at the implication that it was entirely his fault, but then a mischievous grin spread across his face. “Which time?”

You chuckled and shook your head as you spread the arm flat on the floor between the two of you. You’d loosened everything up and it looked like some kind of flayed medical specimen, but with wires instead of veins and metal plating instead of flesh.

“So how’d you lose your arm?” It was meant to be a casual question, a conversation continuer, but Junkrat went silent. You glanced up at him and he was looking off to the side, the smile gone from his face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“S’alright mate. I just don’t like talkin’ ‘bout it,” he replied quietly, probably the gentlest you’d ever heard his voice, as he scanned over the prosthesis. “You sure you know what you’re doin’?”

“Positive.” It was going to need a few replacement parts though. A couple of wires had frayed, and some platings, cracked, and the robotics definitely needed to be re-tuned. The whole thing could use a good cleaning, too, as you noted with the soot all over your hands from the several minutes you’d spent working so far. You began to reach into the nearby scrap pile for some half-deconstructed mechanism that caught your eye, but you paused, looking to Junkrat for permission. He simply nodded.

Two hours later, you had the prosthetic arm put back together and gleaming like it was new (well, if you ignored the dents, dings, and scratches covering it). Roadhog had stopped by at some point to drop off drinks he had picked up. The takeaway cup had plastic wrap sealed to the top and the tan milky liquid was filled with gelatinous-looking balls. You were hesitant to try it, but after Junkrat happily explained what boba tea was, you gave it a cautious try. Yep, the balls were weird and chewy. But the drink itself, not half bad. Would taste better with vodka though. You were sure you could make a mean white Russian out of this drink.  _ What I wouldn’t do for a sip of vodka right now… _

Junkrat seemed anxious to get his arm back, and after giving it a once over, you returned it to him. He slipped the sock back on his stump and affixed the prosthetic over it, strapping it into place. Looking it over, he opened and closed the fist a few times, wiggled the fingers, and made a rude gesture at no one in particular. He hummed to himself.

“So…?” You leaned your elbows on your knees, leaning forward eagerly.

“Shit mate,” Junkrat paused to turn his arm around and inspect it closely. “This is the best it’s ever worked, I reckon.” You beamed with pride, reveling in that feeling of satisfaction that you hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

“You’re welcome, Junkrat.”

“Jamison,” he replied quietly, not meeting your questioning gaze. “My name’s Jamison.” You offered your name as well, and a goofy grin spread across his face.

“So can we agree to get along now?” You asked, half jokingly.

“Truce, mate.”

The rest of the afternoon was a blur. Junkrat insisted on celebrating your new friendship with alcohol, which you were ever thankful for having access to again. You both shared silly stories of dumb childhood experiences and laughed at stupid jokes. He taught you the rules and scoring mechanisms of cricket, and you taught him some hand clapping games and rhymes. He already knew Miss Mary Mack, with slightly more vulgar lyrics than those you knew, but was eager to learn the others you taught him.

Roadhog returned home later in the evening, and was quite surprised to see you and Junkrat getting along, but he seemed pleased by it. Dinner was had and you all enjoyed another round of drinks before sleepiness overcame you and you stumbled off to bed.

You had been laying in the dark for maybe an hour or so, drifting in and out of drunken consciousness, the low rumble of Roadhog’s snoring now a comforting background noise, when a light knock came at the door.

“Come in?” You called out. You heard the door creak open slowly, and could just make out the skinny, wild-haired silhouette in the doorway. “Jamison?”

“Can’t sleep mate,” he drawled, “Mind if I crash out in here?” Your brain tried to figure out if there were any subliminal implications, but you were too drunk and sleepy to read into it.

“Not at all,” you mumbled back, and he shuffled into the room, quietly shutting the door behind him. You scooched over on the mattress and he crawled under the blanket next to you, his metal arm finding its way around your waist as he curled close. Your breath hitched in your throat; you could smell the alcohol on his breath and the perpetual singed hair odor he had about him. His naked torso was warm but his arm was cold. You turned into him and pressed a chaste kiss to his forehead. Metal fingers squeezed against your back as he pulled you in a little closer, and you eventually fell asleep wrapped in each other’s arms.

You woke up with a mild hangover the next morning, disappointed to find yourself tangled in the blanket and alone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed that I changed the rating of this fic from teen to mature. There's implied sex in this chapter and there will be some heavy, heavy stuff in upcoming chapters (and not all of it pleasant)! Please be advised!
> 
> Anyway, in case your wondering, yes, we will find out why Roadhog is so keen on the protagonist, and yes, we will find out why Junkrat hates robots so much, but no, not in this chapter.
> 
> As always, I hope all of you are enjoying this story so far and your comments/feedback are greatly appreciated! Please be gentle!
> 
> And yes, the fire breathing robot dog was an idea stolen from mystic messenger, because I am trash.

From that point forward, Junkrat allowed you access to his scrap collection, so long as you didn’t mess with any of his explosive devices. You were okay with that stipulation. While you could’ve spent a lifetime just organizing and cataloguing all the junk he’d collected, the prospect of being able to build stuff again was far too exciting and your mind was overflowing with potential projects.

“I mostly just collect and trade the scrap,” Junkrat admitted, scratching thoughtfully at the back of his head as you rummaged through a pile and picked out a few key pieces that caught your eye. “Figured you can do better’n I can with it.”

“This is seriously awesome, Jamison.” You glanced over your shoulder just in time to catch a fleeting blush and his lopsided grin. “I promise you I’ll make something really cool.”

You were completely unprepared for his utter chagrin when, the next afternoon, you presented him with something entirely unlike what he’d thought you’d make.

“It’s… a dog?” He hazarded a guess, grimacing.

“It’s a robot dog!” You proudly held up the pomeranian-sized, vaguely-dog-shaped contraption. It let out a series of electronic barks and wagged its metal tail.

“Right…” Junkrat scratched his head. “Not sure if I mentioned, but I’m not really a dog person, mate. Or a robot person.”

“Okay, but watch this.” You excitedly placed the mechanical pooch on the floor, and pushed a button on its back. It shuffled forward a few steps, barked twice, and then opened its mechanical jaws wide and shot a foot-long flame from a pipe in its mouth. You searched Junkrat’s face for any sign of approval, but he maintained a tight-lipped expression as he knit his brows and crossed his arms over his scrawny chest.

“Don’t get me wrong, darl, it’s real neat, but…”

“But?”

“I just really don’t like robots.”

Your spirits fell. You were certain he was going to love it, right down to the fire breathing feature. Instead, Junkrat was uncomfortably shifting his weight back and forth from his peg leg and asking you to turn it off. You pressed the button on the dog’s back again and it ceased moving. Setting it on the kitchen counter, you let out a long sigh and raked your fingertips across your scalp. You glanced over at Junkrat, who offered you a feeble smile, before you turned and left the shack.

_ What the fuck is wrong with me? _ You thought bitterly to yourself as you followed the path down to the river. You’d learned every bump and rock in this path by now, and your bare feet deftly avoided them.  _ I don’t even like Jamie. Why am I vying for his approval?  _ You stopped in your tracks, and shook your head.  _ Why am I calling him Jamie? He’s… not even my type.  _ You pretended not to notice your own hesitation, and thought instead of someone like Noah. Dark hair. Green eyes.  _ Not _ covered in soot.

“I don’t even like him,” you assured yourself out loud as you reached the river’s edge, angrily stripping off your blouse and skirt. The seam on the small slit in the skirt’s back had started to become loose in the last few days, and your rough handling split the entire thing halfway up. Great. Fantastic. Because this was exactly what you needed on top of everything else. You yelled out a curse and several junkers washing their clothes nearby stared at you. You made a face at them and leapt into the cool water, dunking your head under for several seconds.

You spent maybe an hour or so down at the river, scrubbing the grease off your arms, allowing the lazy current to carry you along a bit, and generally contemplating the state of your life. How had it come to this? Oh, right, Junkrat and Roadhog had blown up your fucking job because your boss stiffed them or something like that. But how grateful you should be that you weren’t dead, right? You suddenly wondered if you’d ever see aunt Jenna again.

By the time you got back to the shack, the sun was low in the sky and your bad mood had mellowed out. Junkrat greeted you at the door in a panic, grabbing you by the shoulders.

“Whoa, slow down, what’s going on?” You tossed your wet ragged clothes to the side, you’d hang them up to dry later.

“I… I…” He stuttered, his eyes tracing down your scantily-clad body before his attention snapped back. “I didn’t mean ta break it! I swear!”

“Break… what?” You asked warily, trying to look over his shoulder into the shack.

“The um… the dog ya made. I’m… I’m…” He scratched his forehead. Apologies were clearly not his strong suit. You felt the heat of frustration rise in your gut again as you pushed past him to assess the damage.

The robot dog was in the middle of the floor, its face covered in soot and its mouth stuck open at a ghastly angle. In front of it, in the cone-shaped area of charred floorboards, was the carcass of the meddling rat, burnt to an absolute crisp.

“What happened?” You cautiously approached the scene of the crime. Junkrat offered no answer, and when you looked back at him questioningly, he simply shrugged and made an “I dunno” noise. The robot was warm to the touch when you picked it up and turned it over in your hands, and you breathed a sigh of relief. It was just out of fuel. However, if it was going to make him feel bad, you were going to let Junkrat believe it was still broken for as long as you could conscientiously milk that apologetic attitude out of him. After everything he’d put you through so far, you deserved the grovelling. 

In that moment, Roadhog came lumbering through the door. He stopped short, surveying the scene in front of him, gaze shifting between you (still in only your undergarments), Junkrat, and the big black stain on the floor where the remains of the rat still lay.

“What happened,” he grumbled.

“Well, you see, our friend here made this thing and, uh…” Junkrat was pointing accusingly at you, and there was no way you were going to let him not take any of the blame.

“Jamison broke my toy,” you blurted, offering the robot dog as proof. Junkrat squawked abruptly at the accusation. The two of you sounded like a pair of toddlers who got caught red-handed in the cookie jar, each trying to deflect punishment to the other. You winced slightly at this revelation, but you also didn’t want to give Roadhog a reason to stop babying you. If there was ever someone in this universe you  _ didn’t _ want to be on the bad side of, it was the immense, masked junker.

Roadhog said nothing, but looked back and forth between the two of you again and then made a beeline for Junkrat. He wrapped a meaty hand around Junkrat’s throat and lifted him off the floor. The skinny Australian let out a pathetic bleat as he grappled with the massive fingers around his neck, but to no avail. Roadhog’s fist tightened and Junkrat’s eyes bulged slightly.

“W-wait!” You put a hand on Roadhog’s arm, and the glare he gave you from behind the mask would’ve combusted you on the spot if it could. “It’s not really broken. I can fix it, it’s fine.” You lowered your gaze shamefully. “Please don’t hurt Jamie.”

Roadhog paused thoughtfully, allowing the facts to ruminate for a few long moments, and then released his grip, dumping a wheezing and coughing Junkrat unceremoniously to the ground. After recovering himself, Junkrat glared hurtly at you before skulking off to the loft to watch cricket.

“What is it?” Roadhog asked you, pointing to your robot.

“It’s… a robot dog,” you offered cautiously, less proud of it than you had been earlier. “If you have some lighter fluid I can show you how it works.”

“Lighter fluid?”

“Uh, gasoline would work, too.”

Roadhog pointed you to a canister sitting next to his motorcycle. You picked a rag up off the floor and wiped the soot off your robot, then turned it over and carefully filled the fuel reservoir. Checking that the battery was still good, you put the robot on the floor and pressed the button on its back. The dog whirred to life, wagging its metallic tail and barking twice, before taking a few steps forward and breathing fire again. After allowing it to display its abilities, you pushed the button again to shut it off, and then looked up expectantly at Roadhog.

His mask hid any trace of emotion on his face, but he wrapped his hands around his immense gut and roared with laughter. Well, at least one of the junkers enjoyed your little invention. Junkrat peered from his perch on the couch while Roadhog gave you a chummy slap on the shoulder, nearly knocking you over. He then went rummaging through a box and gave you a soot-stained t-shirt to wear that was about nine sizes too big for you. Still, it was better than prancing around in your skivvies. He sat on the floor and demanded that you demonstrate the robot again.

A bottle of something strong went around with dinner that night, and you stumbled off to bed drunk and with a belly full of delicious grilled mystery meat. No sooner had you laid your head down on the couch cushion you used for a pillow than a soft knock came at the door. You could hear the faint rumbling of Roadhog’s snore, so you knew who it was.

“Come in,” you called out softly. The door clicked open, and then quietly closed. Seconds later, Junkrat was sliding into bed with you, his face nuzzled into your collarbone, his hand across your stomach. You squirmed and giggled. “That tickles.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, tracing the tip of his nose along your jawline.

“Sorry for what?” You turned to face him and pulled his body close to yours. The smell of burning and ash had become pleasant at this point, and his warm body felt nice against yours.

“Sorry about your robot.” His flesh hand traced lightly along your neck and upper chest.

“It’s fine. I… forgot you didn’t like robots.”

“At least we got that fat li’l bugger what’s been stealing my snacks.” Though his face was barely visible, you could feel his widening, shit-eating grin as he thought about the pest’s fiery death. You chuckled in response. The both of you fell into silence; you were content to just be held and touched so gently.

You felt a puff of breath on your face, and slowly Junkrat’s surprisingly soft lips found yours in the dark. You melted into the kiss as his fingers curled into your hair and around your waist. Your hands reached up and found his face, running your fingertips along his stubbled jawline as he suckled on your lower lip. He pressed his hips into yours, gyrating against you, and an electric shiver ran up your spine.

Your drunk mind raced with your quickening heartbeat. You thought of the boys in middle school who asked you out only to laugh at you when your face lit up with glee. You thought about how you lost your virginity to a sweaty sophomore at the school dance who was way too handsy and pretended to not know you after that. Your young adulthood was filled with promises of higher standards only to be a quickie for a townie twice your age in the bar bathroom, of swearing off men forever only to lose yourself on a pair of pretty eyes at the grocery store. When you got to Australia and started your new job, you knew life would be better. Your first hookup down under would be that security cutie Noah who ran the front desk during the day at Hyde Global. Noah, whose crushed, ruined body was probably buried under several hundred tons of steel, concrete, and glass. You’d dreamed of Noah being your first Aussie kiss. Under the moonlight in front of the opera house. Not in a dingy shack in the outback, on a lumpy mattress, with some skinny explosives-obsessed junker.

Oh, how far you’d fallen.

Your body shuddered, and you began to sob quietly.

“Oi, darl, did I hurt you?” Junkrat’s whisper was rife with concern as he wiped tears away from your cheek with his thumb.

“No, you’re fine. You didn’t do anything wrong.” You brought your hands to your face, trying to regulate your staggered breathing and get a hold on your rampant emotions. “Just… bad memories.”

“We can stop, if ya’d like. We don’t hafta do this,” he assured quietly, carefully brushing your hair back. He gently urged your hands away from your face, and you searched his eyes. Even in the dimness, you could see his brows knit with worry and his lips pursed slightly as he ran his fingers across your shoulders comfortingly. You shivered, and he pulled the scratchy blanket close around you. You felt safe in his embrace, and relished the closeness of his body. Screw Noah, would he have treated you this gently?

You wondered if Junkrat genuinely cared for you, or if this was yet another elaborate act by a man to get in your pants. There was only one way to find out.

“No, don’t stop,” You sniffled, finally getting control over your crying, “I want this, I want you, Jamie.”

His name on your voice filled him with a renewed fervor and he kissed you passionately.

“God, darl, you’re beautiful,” he murmured as he rolled you onto your back and hooked your legs around his waist, kissing down your neck. Your hands found their way to his hair as you allowed yourself to get lost in the sensations, to abandon yourself to the carnal bliss you hadn’t experienced in quite some time.

When you woke the next morning, you were wrapped snugly in the blanket, but Junkrat was already up and gone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big fat content warning for overdose and suicide attempts in this chapter. It gets really dark. I'm not sorry.

“Listen darl,” Junkrat spoke excitedly as he shovelled more scrambled eggs into his mouth, “I got this crazy idea.”

The two of you were in the loft watching cricket and eating breakfast. Roadhog had taken his motorcycle that morning, which meant that he wouldn’t be home for a few days. Which, in turn, meant that Junkrat wouldn’t have to wait until the massive junker was asleep to sneak into bed with you.

“Let’s hear it.” You glanced over at him, and he motioned towards the food in his mouth. Like that ever stopped him from talking before. He swallowed his mouthful and immediately followed it with a bite of toast as you stared expectantly.

“Okay so.” Crumbs fell into his lap. “What if you made a mecha.”

In the past week you had made improvements to the television antenna, automated the station that Roadhog used to refill those weird chemical canisters he huffed from, un-rigged the Pachimari machine, took apart and rebuilt Junkrat’s peg leg, improved the generator’s efficiency, and even helped Roadhog with repairs on his bike. And while general maintenance kept you busy around the shack, especially with the magical ability Junkrat had to break nearly everything he touched, you still managed to have plenty of spare time to watch cricket or tinker with your own creations. However, you’d never even come close to building something as impressive as a mecha before, and you weren’t even sure it was within your scope of abilities. A mecha was a serious piece of machinery. As if sensing your hesitation, Junkrat continued.

“I think you should consider it, babe.” He threw an arm around your shoulder and panned his other hand across an imaginary scene. “Just picture it. You winning the mecha battle at the Queen’s arena, and me being allowed back inna Junkertown.” His plate began to slip off his lap, and his metal hand mashed into the remainder of his scrambled eggs as he caught it.

“So this is really about getting your ban lifted,” you pointed out coyly, shrugging his arm off. Junkrat opened his mouth and then closed it, and made a face like you’d stepped on his toe.

“Well, uh… no, not really.” He picked bits of egg out of his mechanical finger joints and flicked them onto the floor. “I just think you’d look right wicked stompin’ around that arena and beatin’ people up.” Junkrat leaned into you and nuzzled your neck. “Just the thought of it is gettin’ me all hot and bothered,” he purred.

“Finish your breakfast,” you laughed, turning and capturing his lips in a quick smooch before slipping off the couch to wash your empty plate. “I’ll think about it.”

You’d be lying if you hadn’t thought about the mecha battles before, but you’d never planned on staying in Junkertown this long. It had been nearly two months now, and surely someone out there was searching for you.

…Right?

In any case, you’d been squirreling away parts that wouldn’t be missed in order to work on a radio when your housemates were busied with other things. You were still missing a few key components, but you’d already been able to record a brief SOS message to broadcast for when you finally got it working. That had been the trickiest part so far, as you’d had to wait for Junkrat to go down to the river and bathe, which he was getting better at doing regularly, but it still wasn’t something he did often.

_ You should build a mecha. _ If nothing else, it would be a fun challenge. And it would give you a good cover to scrounge up the rest of the parts you needed for your radio.

After taking a stroll down to the river to wash your face, you returned and climbed back up to the loft, standing between the tv and Junkrat, who was sprawled across the couch with one leg draped over the back.

“I thought about it,” you said, feigning seriousness.

“And…?”

“I’ll do it,” you declared, grinning. Junkrat whooped and laughed and leapt up to a sitting position, grabbing onto your shirt and pulling you down so he could kiss you passionately. Laying back down, he pulled you on top of him, hands finding their way under your shirt and tracing up and down your spine.

It felt nice to be paid attention to like this. You reveled in the way Junkrat made you feel when he loved on you. And he really was quite handsome once he cleaned up. His skin was a lovely shade of sun kissed with a dusting of freckles, When he washed his hair, it fell in loose blonde curls around his face, giving him a cherubic appearance. You knew you were going to miss the way he whispered your name in your ear, the way every ministration was just perfect when he made love to you, when you finally left for reality. Would you ever find another man to treat you this way again? Given your sordid history, probably not.

You were able to bask in your afterglow for only a few minutes before Junkrat urged you to start working on the mecha. He gathered pencils and paper together for you and you set to work drafting a design. Junkrat didn’t know much of the technical stuff, but he had quite a few ideas for enhancements and accoutrements that were, according to him, absolutely crucial. More than half of them would bog the machine down unnecessarily — like a swinging morning star — but you wrote them into the margins anyway. It couldn’t hurt to have all your options on the table. 

Actual construction started only two days later. Roadhog rode up early that evening, his roaring motorcycle announcing his arrival before he came over the hill. His sidecar was laden with a little bit of everything: bags of money, slabs of meat wrapped in butcher’s paper, sacks of dried rice and beans, clothes, a frazzled-looking chicken in a cage, and a huge plush Pachimari.

“Did you go on a heist without me?” Junkrat squawked, looking nervously over the spoils.

“No, grocery run,” Roadhog grunted back. Junkrat narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “We were running low on stuff.”

You dropped your wrench and wiped the sweat and dirt from your forehead as you approached to see what there was.

“Hey, welcome back,” you greeted.

“For you,” Roadhog unloaded an armful of clothes and the plush Pachimari on you. “Gifts.”

“Wow, thanks.” The clothes looked like they might be a little big for you, but you didn’t mind. Anything would be better than wearing the odd combination of Roadhog’s massive shirt and Junkrat’s tiny spare shorts, which were so narrow at the waist that you couldn’t even zip up the fly all the way. Junkrat didn’t mind that at all, though, it was less he had to fuss with when he inevitably wiggled you out of them.

“Anything for me?” Junkrat asked hopefully, grinning wide as he clasped his hands together.

“You get to put the groceries away,” Roadhog grunted. Junkrat’s whole demeanor fell, and he grumbled to himself as the massive junker unloaded the packaged meats on him.

“Hey, check it out.” You figured now was a better time than any to show off what you’d been working on. “I’m making a mecha. Jamie had this idea that I should enter the mecha battle and—”

“No.”

“But I already—”

“I said no. Too dangerous.” Well this was not what you expected at all. A sudden flood of memories from your childhood came back to you in a jumble. A shop teacher telling you no. Your so-called friends telling you no. All your hopeful college applications returned with no. You felt a hot flash of anger and balled your fists up.

“Who do you think you are,  _ my dad? _ ” You spat. Roadhog went dangerously silent as he glared at you through his mask. You couldn’t see his face, but you could feel a seething wave of calm ire coming off of him that made you instantly regret your outburst. But before you could say anything else, he simply hoisted a sack of beans over his shoulder and stomped inside. Moments later, the sounds of Junkrat getting the piss beat out of him could be heard halfway across Junkertown.

Dinner was eerily devoid of chatter that night. The sounds of forks scraping against plates and open-mouthed chewing (not you, your manners were better than that) were punctuated only by Junkrat’s pathetic sniffles as he suffered through his bruises and bumps. One of his gold teeth had popped out, and Roadhog gave him a nice shiner, as well. Poor guy. He didn’t deserve it. Sure, he’d been the one to plant the idea in your head in the first place, but at the end of the day you were an adult and you made the decision yourself to participate in the lethal sport of mecha battling. So what if you had a deathwish? That was your right.

After carefully calculating your words, you decided to speak up.

“Look, I just wanted to say—”

“Fine.” Roadhog cut you off mid-sentence. Junkrat raised an eyebrow. “Go ahead and build your mecha. I won’t stop you.”

Well, that certainly ended up being easier than it had played out in your head. Junkrat seemed to be equally as surprised as you were. You gawked at Roadhog, who only sat in silence, staring down at his plate. His shoulders shuddered momentarily, and his huge belly rose as he took a deep breath.

“Just… promise you’ll be careful.” There was a certain sadness to his voice, a hint of loss. And if you had blinked you would’ve missed it, but you swore you saw a single tear roll down his lower cheek to his chin. He quickly wiped it away.

“I promise,” you replied quietly. Junkrat looked back and forth between the two of you with mild bewilderment for a moment before excusing himself from the table and clearing his dinner plate.

 

* * *

 

A week later, you were putting the finishing touches on your shiny new mecha. The sun gleamed off the fresh coat of green and teal paint. An obnoxious color combination, for sure, but you had insisted on teal, Junkrat on green, and painting was the only thing he got to truly help with.

“My masterpiece,” you mused, stepping back and admiring the machine that only a week ago was a scrawled pencil drawing on discarded butcher’s paper.

“I think it’s missing somethin’.” Junkrat tapped his chin thoughtfully. You could almost see the lightbulb pop up over his head as he got the idea. “Ah! Got it!” He grabbed a paintbrush, wiped it clean on his shorts, and dipped it into the white paint. On the side of the mecha, he scrawled his signature smiley face. “For good luck,” he insisted with a grin.

Truth be told, luck was probably already on your side. Your mecha looked modest, but it housed dual blasters, a blowtorch that boasted a two foot flame, and a grenade launcher. That last bit had been one of Junkrat’s suggestions that had made the cut. Your mecha was also equipped with heavy rubber bumpers and steel spikes for anyone who got too close.

Roadhog had refused to see you off to the fortress, but didn’t try to stop you.

By the time you and Junkrat had reached the gate, dark clouds had started to roll in, promising quenching rains for the scorched landscape. You eyed them with a degree of trepidation; you’d always hated thunderstorms. Also, if you’d managed to survive your bout at the arena, you’d be stuck walking home in the rain.

“Who goes there?” A gruff voice from somewhere above the gate called out. You craned your neck from inside the mecha to see, but the construction didn’t allow you much upward vision.

“Open up! We’re here for the arena!” Junkrat called back.

“Junkrat?!” The voice barked incredulously. “You’ve got real balls trying to come back here. The Queen wants your head, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” Junkrat leaned nonchalantly against the leg of your mecha, crossing his arms. “She can ‘ave it  _ after _ the battles if she wants me that bad. I’m just ‘ere to see my girl win.”

Your stomach fluttered pleasantly with the way he said  _ my girl, _ but it was short-lived as the gatekeeper’s voice laughed mockingly. “Your girl? Which one is it this week, Junkrat?” The blonde stomped his peg leg and sputtered incredulously.

“He’s with me, he’s helping me handle my mecha today. I promise I’ll keep him out of trouble,” you spoke up.

“Eh? You’re putting your neck on the line for this troublemaker?” The gatekeeper seemed genuinely surprised. “Alright, but if he causes any trouble, the Queen’s throwin’ the both of you in the brig ta rot.” An unseen mechanism whirred to life with a loud grinding noise, and the gate slowly opened for you.

After you entered your name in for the arena battle, you and your mecha — accompanied closely by Junkrat — were sent to a holding area with half a dozen or so other participants and their handlers. You had exited your machine at this point and gave it a good once over for any loose bolts or potential weak spots, trying to ignore the hushed wave of whispers that rippled through the room when they saw Junkrat.

“I get the feeling you’re not exactly popular here,” you murmured to him.

“Yeah, I’ve got a reputation, babe. Don’t worry about it.” Junkrat tried to sound unbothered, but you noticed how his brow knit and he kept peering around nervously.

“Junkrat, how nice of you to show up,” a sarcastic voice cut through the murmurs, and you turned to see a tall, muscular woman with dark skin and short, choppy hair. She had a hefty toolbelt wrapped around her waist and wore a look of pure disdain on her face as she peered down at Junkrat. He grinned at her.

“Sheila! Never thought I’d see you again, how you been?” He attempted a suave pose.

“It’s Sienna. Never mind that, it’s Miss Fix-It-Up to you,” she snarled. “Your arm’s lookin’ real good, guess ya conned someone else into tuning it up for you?”

“Yeah, and she’s the best there is,” Junkrat retorted. You stepped forward, and offered your hand to the woman.

“I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m here for the arena, and Jamie here helped me put this thing together.” You gestured a thumb over your shoulder at your mecha.

The woman sized you up for a moment with a weighted stare, before she gripped your hand and gave it a good shake.

“Jamie, eh?” She raised an eyebrow with a degree of amusement. “I haven’t heard him called that in a hot minute. You’ve got a good grip though, not as soft as ya look.”

“T-thanks?”

She laughed. “Anyway if you need any minor repairs or anything between rounds, that’s what I’m here for. You better watch out for this one though,” she nodded towards Junkrat, “we call him ‘rat’ for a reason.”

Before Junkrat could protest, Sienna had wandered off into the crowd to do inspections.

“Don’t listen to ‘em,” your compatriot muttered sourly, though it seemed more to himself than anything else. “Buncha drongos.”

Before long, names were drawn and the matches were set. You wouldn’t be until the fourth or fifth match, so you had time to watch the others. The arena’s seating area was packed with junkers restless for entertainment. A throne sat at the head of the arena on a lifted platform. The Queen hadn’t arrived yet, but bodyguards who were equal in size to Roadhog, maybe even bigger, stood on either side of the platform, stoically awaiting their lady.

When she finally emerged, you didn’t think it was possible for a woman to be even more Amazonian in stature than Sienna. A hush fell over the arena as the Queen took up her throne and crossed her leather-clad legs boredly. One of the bodyguards leaned in and whispered something to her, and she nodded, betraying no emotion on her war paint-adorned face.

The mecha battles were nothing short of brutal. No holds were barred, and people sitting closest to the area were showered with sparks and blood. One combatant was eviscerated by the grappling arm of their own mecha after a damaging blow wrecked the guidance system, and the next match had to be put on hold until janitors could come in to clean up the spilled entrails.

The third match had just ended, and a combatant from the fourth match was previously disqualified, so you would be up next. Junkrat, however, was nowhere to be found. You called out his name while meandering through the bodies and machinery in the holding room, but received no answer. Sienna grabbed you by the shoulder, said it was time to go. You glanced around frantically as she led you back to your mecha and helped you in.

“Good luck, kid, I really do wish you the best.” She slapped the plating on the side of your mecha and you fired it up. People made way for you as you ambled down the hall to the arena floor. You were received with a smattering of cheers and boos. When your opponent took the floor, the crowd went wild. She was apparently a big deal, and you were sure you’d seen her on tv or something before. Hana Something-or-other, a Korean idol who’d climbed her way to fame as a professional gamer, and then decided to take up mecha battling for fun.

_ For fun. _

You glanced at her mecha, and swallowed hard. This girl meant business, and it was her business to  _ win _ mecha battles.

“Yeah! That’s my girl!” You heard a familiar shout from the stands, and caught sight of Junkrat pumping his fist at you, his mop of unruly blonde hair barely visible at the back of the crowd. Seeing him cheering for you renewed you with a sense of vigor, and you moved to your designated spot, staring down the other mecha with a sense of determination until the starting horn blared.

You’d had some practice piloting your creation but everything was different when it was in the heat of the moment. Metal clashed and sparks flew, and your heart raced as you mashed buttons and jerked the steering mechanism. Despite the small fan in your cockpit, sweat was pouring down your forehead. Burning rubber and gasoline odors assailed your nostrils.

Hana had nearly knocked your mecha off its feet at one point, but you’d managed to regain your footing. You manned your blasters, but the energy pellets ricocheted off her hull, nicking the paint job at best.

The grenades had come in handy and you made a note to thank Junkrat later. You used a grappling arm to smash one against her windshield when the launcher pipe got bent, and it was the first time in the past ten minutes you’d seen her lose her cool. You broke through the windshield and lodged the quickly ticking grenade solidly in her dashboard. She cursed in Korean, dialed a series of buttons, and began stripping off her restraints.

You whirled around to look for Junkrat, to see if he’d seen your daft move. He should’ve been so proud of you. Unfortunately, you should’ve been paying attention to your battle instead. You’d failed to realize that Hana had set off a self-destruct sequence as she rolled deftly out of her mecha and started pelting at your machine’s legs with her pocket blaster. But you finally caught sight of him and… he wasn’t paying attention to you at all. He had his arm around Sienna and his face was buried in her neck. She threw her head back with laughter. Your stomach dropped and your body went numb.

A blaring warning on your dashboard brought you back into the moment. You were able to escape from your mecha only moments before the two of them exploded, and the shock threw you back several feet. You were vaguely aware of the crowd roaring and energy pellets whizzing past you. Your eyes were blurred with stinging tears, and you scrambled to your feet and set to flee the arena.

“A cowardly surrender!” The Queen laughed, as you ran. Away from the arena. Through the empty streets of Junkertown. Out of the main gate. You could only barely hear Hana being announced as the winner of that match, but that was the furthest thing from your mind at that point.

You stopped just outside of the main gate to find yourself standing in the pouring rain. A lightning bolt lit up the dark sky and a shuddering clap of thunder quickly followed.

_ Why? Why did I trust him? _ You began to run again, towards Roadhog’s shack. Towards home. Towards your only chance of salvation.  _ He’s just like all the others and I’m so fucking stupid for not seeing it. _ Your lungs burned, your legs ached, your head was pounding.

“Roadhog! Mako?” You called out breathlessly as you burst into the shack, dripping wet. Your hair kept sliding into your face. No one answered you. Roadhog had gone out. Fuck, your head was hurting so bad. Your stomach lurched, but you only dry heaved.  _ I need to calm down. I need to stop crying. I need to… _ None of your internal monologue was helping, and you only felt more upset the more you stopped and allowed your mind to ruminate on what you’d seen.

Maybe there was something in Junkrat’s room that you could drink, take, knock yourself out with. You burst in, the smoky smell of him lingering in the air renewing your hysterics. You snatched up a half-empty bottle of liquor and swigged from it. The amber liquid burned all the way down. You tore through the junk heaps, throwing things everywhere. Then you found your half-finished radio, and kicked it across the room with a scream.

You took another deep swig from the bottle and smashed the rest of it against the wall, stumbling back out into the main room. The alcohol was already starting to affect you, as you hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and you staggered over to Roadhog’s sleeping area. Maybe he had something stronger. Something to kill the hurt that wouldn’t stop needling at your heart. There was a box under his bed, and you pulled it out and began to rummage through it.

A cracked picture frame caught your eye, and you cleared the miscellaneous junk from it. Your heart nearly stopped.

You may as well have been looking at a picture of yourself as a child, a happy ten year old child, sitting on the shoulders of a heavyset man with his salt and pepper hair pulled into a ponytail. Was this Mako? Was this his child?

_ Ama & Mako _

Carved into the wood of the picture frame were the names, a date, a dash, and another date that was approximately twelve years later. The second date was a familiar one. You’d learned about that date in school. It was when the native Australians clashed with the omnics in a civil war and in attempt to take their land back, had blown the whole area to smithereens.

And that’s when the realization hit you like a ton of bricks. You were just a placeholder. This whole time, you weren’t even being appreciated as your own self. You were a stand-in. For Mako’s lost daughter. For Jamie’s long-distance affections. Nothing was ever for _you_ in the first place. Reeling, you dug through the box and found an unlabeled bottle of pills.  _ Fuck it. Fuck them. Fuck everything. _

The next thing you knew, you were stumbling barefooted down the path to the river. Your legs had given out on you several times as you slowly began to lose control of your motor functions. Your skin crawled and felt painfully numb at the same time. Your whole body shivered and trembled, but you were racked with hot flashes. Your stomach was twisting itself in knots and you had thrown up several times. The river was swollen with rain and the current had picked up. If you could just throw yourself in and end this miserable existence…

The mud squished between your toes and it became hard to breathe. You were almost there. You slipped and fell, but couldn’t pull yourself back to your feet. The world around you started to slowly spin and your vision went dark.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was on a roll today and here's the last chapter. I suck at endings though so whoops.
> 
> Anyway, I'd love some feedback, but please be gentle!

_ I just want to sleep… _ you remember thinking, and a soft beeping lured you to the cusp of consciousness. You tried to open your eyes but your lids felt heavy. Your head felt heavy. Your whole body felt heavy.

_ Am I dead? _

You could hear a faint voice over an intercom. Footsteps on linoleum flooring. The beeping of a heart monitor.

Your senses began to slowly tingle to life. A soft pressure hugged your arm as a blood pressure cuff inflated. The cool breath of oxygen hissed into your nostrils from a tube strapped across your face. Warmth from a blanket tucked snugly over your body.

You finally willed your eyes to open, and your vision was blurred. You could make out wires, monitors, an IV drip that led into your taped up arm.

“Ah, you’re awake.” A gentle voice brought your attention to a bespeckled woman in white scrubs standing over you. You blinked a few times. Your eyes felt dry. “Can you hear me?” She asked, checking your vitals, and you nodded weakly.

“I’m not dead?” Your voice came out hoarse and felt scratchy in your throat.

The woman smiled sadly at you. “As much as I’m sure that was your intent, no, you’re not dead. You’re actually doing quite well considering, and they’ll probably let you go home in a few days.”

_ Home. _ Where even was it at this point?

You closed your eyes again, your mind searching for the last things you remembered. The mecha. The rain. The Queen calling you a coward. The cracked photo frame. Junkrat.  _ Junkrat. _

_ Jamie… _

You felt a pang in your chest as you recalled the betrayal. 

“You have some visitors who want to see you, if you’re feeling up to it,” the nurse offered as she changed your IV bag.

“Visitors?” Your voice betrayed your skepticism. Who cared enough to visit you?

“I can send them away, if you’d like.” She drew a vial of blood from the side tube on your IV, slapped a label on it, and set it on a tray off to the side.

“No, it’s fine. You can let them in.”

The nurse smiled warmly at you before disappearing behind a half-closed curtain. You heard a door open, followed by heavy footsteps. Roadhog came from around the curtain, carrying a plush Pachimari and wearing a set of dark blue scrubs that didn’t quite fit, so his massive belly hung out. He said nothing, but set the Pachimari on your lap and squeezed your hand gently. What surprised you the most was that he was without his full-face mask. Instead, he wore a pair of dark sunglasses and a yellow paper surgical mask. The bridge of his nose was knobbed and what you could see of his face was covered in scars. His wiry white brows knit, and a couple tears stole away from beneath the sunglasses. He turned to leave.

“Wait.” You grabbed at his hand, holding him back. “Tell me about Ama.”

“Amelina,” He responded quietly, not turning back to you. “Ama was her nickname. She was the only light I had in this god-forsaken world.”

“I’m sorry,” you choked out, holding back your own tears. “And… I’m sorry that I couldn’t be her for you. I know that’s what you wanted.”

“I wanted her to be a smart, strong woman.” He turned back to you, taking your hand in both of his massive ones.  Tears stained his rutted, scarred cheeks. “I would want her to be like you.”

It was your turn to avert your gaze. The lump in your throat grew as you tried to think of anything you’d done in your life worth merit. None of it seemed good enough, but somehow, Roadhog saw something within you, something past just your likeness to his dead daughter. He released your hand and laid it gently back on the blanket, before turning and leaving.

Junkrat was the next to visit you. He was also wearing a set of dark blue scrubs that hung loose of his skinny body, and the left leg was rolled up above his prosthesis. He was carrying a bouquet of sunflowers tied together with a simple green ribbon and was followed closely by a man dressed like a sheriff. The junker’s face lit up momentarily as he laid eyes on you, and he quickly sat in a chair he scooted as close to you as he could manage, nearly knocking over the IV stand in the process. You turned your head away from him hurtly.

“Darl, I’m so glad you’re okay, I was so worried about you and…” he started, but his voice trailed off as a tear rolled down your cheek. “Babe?”

“Don’t you dare call me that,” you snapped at him, “I saw you. With  _ her. _ You used me.” Junkrat winced.

“Can we uh, get a little privacy?” He asked the sheriff man, who glared back at him with contempt. “Look I ain’t gonna make a run for it, okay? You’ve got my word. Please.” After a few moments the man reluctantly left the room, closing the door behind him.

“There’s nothing you can say.” You turned the Pachimari over in your hands. It emitted a soft squeak as you squished it, and smiled up at you with that cute, empty face.

“Darl, you was gonna leave me.” Junkrat’s voice wavered, and he fiddled with the sunflowers. “I found the radio you was making, an’ I heard you talking about wantin’ ta be saved. From us.”

You had nothing to say in your own defense. It was true, all of it. Junkrat sucked at his teeth as he carefully picked his next words.

“I ain’t good at this stuff. I don’t open up ta people because they all leave. Sienna left. You was gonna leave. Heck, Roadie only stays because I pay him to.” He sniffled, pursing his lips tightly and staring down at the floor. “I just wish you woulda considered staying, is all.”

You looked away, tears burning in your eyes as they blurred your vision. Fuck. What was he doing to you? You swore you would never think about him again when you got out, but all you wanted to do at the moment was wrap your arms around him, cradle his head against your chest, and assure him you would stay. Forever.

_ No. _ You couldn’t be weak. He would only fuck you over again when it was convenient. But then again, you had set yourself up for it, and you couldn’t pretend like your plan to leave didn’t give him a reason.  _ Why am I so upset? Why do I care? I hated him… _

“Five more minutes, Fawkes,” the sheriff’s voice called from the other side of the door. Junkrat’s eyes looked over the petals of the sunflowers as he furrowed his brow, looking conflicted. A heavy silence settled, broken only by the beeping of the equipment monitoring you.

“Omnics,” he finally said quietly.

“What?”

“You wanted ta know how I lost my arm. I was nearly a teen… when the whole omnic war happened, and there were bands of rogue tin heads that would go around beatin’ people up for fun. My buddies and I… one night we snuck into some abandoned warehouse that was ‘posed ta be haunted, and I was the only one who made it out alive. Bloody robots beat me so bad that I hadda have my arm an’ leg amputated.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you.” You maintained as cold of a tone as you could muster. You didn’t want him thinking you started caring about him again. You didn’t want  _ yourself _ thinking you started caring about him again.

“Two more minutes,” the sheriff updated. Junkrat chewed on his lip nervously, wringing his hands around the stems of the sunflowers.

“I don’t know how to say this right, but I ain’t never felt about a sheila like this before. I get this weird feeling in my chest when I think about ya, darl. A good weird feeling.”

“I bet you say that to all the other girls.” You lowered your gaze.

“Nuh uh! I mean, I’ve said some right pretty things before, but I ain’t never meant it until now. I swear.” Junkrat was leaning forward on his chair anxiously. He seemed to remember the sunflowers he was holding, and offered them to you.  “Anyway, these are for you.”

“For me?” You accepted the bouquet warily.

“Because you’re like, my sunshine.” He immediately groaned and slapped his forehead. “It sounded better in my head.”

You couldn’t help but giggle softly.

“Sixty seconds, Fawkes.”

“Well, it was nice knowing ya anyway, even if you could stay I ain’t gonna see you for a long time.” Junkrat wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, his face reddening as he struggled to keep his tears at bay.

“Wait, why?” You sat up, suddenly feeling fearful. The speed of the rhythmic beeping increased.

“In order ta make sure ya didn’t cark it, we had ta turn ourselves in. This bounty hunter offered us a pretty sweet deal if ya ask me, though.” His voice cracked and he smiled through the tears that were freely streaming down his cheeks now, leaving trails in the fine layer of soot on his face. Your heart wrenched in your chest.

“Why would you do that for me?” You asked incredulously. “I’m nobody special.”

“You’re special to us, darl. That’s all that matters.”

The door had opened and the sheriff was back, patiently waiting to remove Junkrat from the room. Before he could leave you, again, you grabbed him by the collar of his scrubs and pulled him into a fumbled kiss, salty with your combined tears.

“I’ll miss you, Jamie.” You rested your forehead against his.

“I’ll miss you too, darl.”

“C’mon Fawkes, time’s up.” The sheriff led Junkrat out of the room, and the nurse returned.

“You have a phone call, says she’s your aunt. Will you take it?” You nodded, wiping the tears and bits of soot from your face. The nurse pressed some buttons on a wall panel behind you, and handed you the phone receiver.

“Hello?” You spoke into the phone with a degree of trepidation, not knowing how aunt Jenna was going to respond. The pause before you heard anything was so long that you thought you might’ve been disconnected.

“Oh my god, it’s really you.” Aunt Jenna’s voice came softly through the phone.

“Hey, Jenna. It’s me.” You smiled at the feeling of familiarity.

“Jesus I thought you were dead.” She laughed nervously. “I’d heard about that explosion in Sydney and no one could find you for months… are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Jenna.”

“Where are you living? What are you doing? Are you sure you’re fine? Do you need me to send you money?”

“I uh, got a gig building robots. Out in the wasteland.”

“The wasteland?! Look if you need me to—”

“No, Jenna, it’s fine. I promise. I’m doing what I always wanted to do. I’ll write you when I get out of here, okay?”

There was a long pause, and you could hear her sigh the way she did when she picked and chose her battles with you.

“Okay honey. I’ll look out for your letter. Take care of yourself. Love you.”

“Thanks Jenna, love you.”

_ Fuck. What am I going to do? _

 

* * *

 

When you got out of the hospital, you could’ve gone anywhere. All you needed to do was call aunt Jenna and she would’ve made it happen, no questions asked. You had nothing but the Pachimari plush, the bouquet of sunflowers, and a set of plain clothes the hospital had given you when you were discharged. But you already knew where you were headed.

It turned out you had been airlifted to the nearest legitimate medical facility, which was a day and a half drive out from Junkertown. It was nearly impossible to find someone willing to take you that way on promise of payment when you got there, but you found a caravan of traders who were going that way anyway and agreed to take you. In exchange, you kept their vehicles and machinery in tip top shape during the journey, which seemed to be payment enough.

As you approached the outskirts of Junkertown late that evening, with that monstrous fortress looming ahead, you asked them to drop you off. You then walked the rest of the way to Roadhog’s shack. To your surprise, the lights were on inside and an enticing aroma of cooked food wafted out of the open windows. It smelled like kangaroo stew, which had recently become your favorite. You wondered if someone else had taken up residence here while Roadhog and Junkrat were locked up for what would arguably be for the rest of their natural lives, just considering the sheer number of counts they would be booked on.

“What a crock of shit! That was a fair play! Oi, is dinner ready yet? I’m starved!”

No, Roadhog and Junkrat were definitely home. You approached the door with uncertainty, but then took a deep breath and rapped your knuckles on the heavy wood.

“Tell ‘em to get lost!” Junkrat shouted angrily. After a few moments you heard the shuffling of heavy footsteps, and the door slammed open.

Roadhog had his junk gun in hand, ready to blow a hole in whoever was interrupting his cooking, but he dropped it when he saw you. You said nothing, but smiled broadly.

“Shit,” Roadhog laughed, pressing his palm against his forehead, “he’s gonna flip.”

“Roadie, who is it? Why ain’t they gone yet?” You heard Junkrat bemoan. You could see his mop of unruly hair over the edge of the couch, but he was too invested in the cricket game on tv to turn around and look.

“Hey asshole, get down here,” Roadhog demanded with a chuckle. Junkrat let out an indignant bark before craning his neck to see over the back of the couch. His amber eyes under low, bushy brows went from glaring at Roadhog, to you, and once he set his sights on you, his demeanor changed in an instant. He yelled unintelligibly, and in his haste to leap off the couch, fell off the loft completely and landed face first on the floor below. You ran over to check if he was okay, tossing your Pachimari and wilted sunflowers to the side. He sprung to his feet and snatched you up in a hug, spinning you around and laughing maniacally. 

“Darl, I thought I was never gonna see you again!” He laughed through the tears that were streaming down his face, and covered your cheeks in frantic kisses.

“I thought I was never gonna see  _ you _ again! How did you guys manage to get back so fast?”

Junkrat giggled excitedly and made fists in front of his face. “Kaboom,” was all the explanation he offered as he spread his hands out and wiggled his fingers. Roadhog laughed along.

You remembered that these men were dangerous mercenaries. They stole, killed, and blew shit up, just for fun. But also, they loved you enough to risk their freedom for you, and you would be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t love them back.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Roadhog announced, stirring a large stock pot on the stovetop.

“Does this mean you’re gonna stay?” Junkrat asked carefully, his hands finding your waist and pulling you close. His fingers played along the hemline of your t-shirt, and his eyes searched your face expectantly. His smile was hopeful, but faded with every second that you didn’t answer.

“I’m gonna stay, as long as you’ll have me,” you declared after a pause, and Junkrat spun you around again, laughing and crying and refusing to let you go. Roadhog came up behind you and gathered the both of you into a bear hug, and you could hear him sniffling under his mask.

That night, after Roadhog had fallen asleep, Junkrat made love to you like it was the last time he would be allowed. His hands and mouth were everywhere, hungering for you, never able to get enough. You curled into his arms as tiredness overcame you, and he gently traced his fingers up and down your back until you fell asleep.

You awoke the next morning to the smell of bacon cooking and the sound of soft snoring in your ear. Junkrat was still asleep, his arm curled around your waist. You rolled over and smooched him on the nose. His eyes lazily fluttered open, and he smiled softly before closing his eyes again and snuggling closer to you.

This was it. This was exactly where you wanted to be. You were home, and this was your family now.


End file.
